


Grey on the Radar "Pilot" oneshot

by faintwalker



Series: Grey on the Radar [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternate Universe - Space Pirates, Blink-and-you'll-miss-it allusion to past non-con, Claustrophobia (background), Deceitful Misrepresentation Of An Individual's Caste, Gen, Karkat's colorful language, Off-Planet Adulthood Life Being Spent in Ways Not Compliant With Empirical Standards, POV Karkat Vantas, Space Battles, Technically Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faintwalker/pseuds/faintwalker
Summary: They’re firing at you.Your ship wasn’t really built for defense.  If anything, theArisen’sstrong point is stealth, not that she was built for that either.  Sollux tries his best, though.  He gathers any data he can from encounters to improve the cloaking programs.  You are by no means invisible, but older technology usually picks you up as a burst of static, a smudge, space debris, just another bit of grey on the radar.  This has kept you from being pursued and blown up numerous times, but even with Sollux’s programming your outdated hunk of still-operative junk has its limits.Hence the firing at you.  It happens sometimes.
Relationships: Sollux Captor & Karkat Vantas
Series: Grey on the Radar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844218
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Grey on the Radar "Pilot" oneshot

They’re firing at you.

Your ship wasn’t really built for defense. If anything, the _Arisen’s_ strong point is stealth, not that she was built for that either. Sollux tries his best, though. He gathers any data he can from encounters to improve the cloaking programs. You are by no means invisible, but older technology usually picks you up as a burst of static, a smudge, space debris, just another bit of grey on the radar. This has kept you from being pursued and blown up numerous times, but even with Sollux’s programming your outdated hunk of still-operative junk has its limits.

Hence the firing at you. It happens sometimes.

You’re in the bridge trying not to panic as you read the incoming data feeds telling you just how superior the equipment of your opponent is. Some blue who’s pushing indigo, nobody you’ve ever heard of, intends to take you down with the full might of a class-L battleconveyor. A glare out the main viewport leads you to the conclusion that the “L” doesn’t stand for large, at least as far as troop transport vessels go. Such things aren’t really your area of expertise, but your radar backs up your assumption, putting the ship at only about four times the size of your own.

Data continues to pile up on screens, selected important highlights separated from a blur of details. Construction was completed on the battleconveyor five sweeps ago, and the captain probably has around twice that many sweeps in active service. If their blasdestroyers score a clean hit on you it _will_ pierce your hull, and your return fire would be piddly against the force of their shields. The odds aren’t in your favor, but they never are in combat. If you survive long enough, maybe you’ll get used to it.

With a sharp jolt, everything lurches swiftly to the side. You end up in the unused manual intership communications corner choking on freshly disturbed dust. You’ve smacked a horn on the wall, and your vision is one big white spot for too many precious moments while pain splits your cranial casing and rings a fake sound through your auricular sponges. Your eyes gum up with dust clinging to the brim of pain-tears, and your thorax convulses repeatedly as you collapse into a useless heap on the floor. 

As your senses become unfizzled enough to function, you realize Sollux is yelling at you over the still-sounding alarm. It’s just the “someone wants to kill us” alarm, still, not the “oh god critical hit abort abort we’re fucked” one, which is a relief because it means you aren’t currently losing your atmosphere to a blast through your hull, someone on your helmsteam must have thrown the ship aside in a hurry. Aradia, probably, because Sollux was still analyzing for blind spots or something, only he seems to have broken that off to tell you to get your sorry ass off the lightly textured carbon-structure pseudoground of the command block. You stumble upright, distantly registering the far-off echoes of Nepeta’s enraged yowl. She must have slammed into something too. A thrumming whine alerts you to the powering up of one of the light energy cannons onboard.

“KK, oh my god, we need you to focuth,” Sollux blathers over the speaker. “Lejiion’th freakiing out agaiin, II don’t have tiime to play luthuth to our pathenger, and, in cathe you haven’t noticed, we are _thtiil_ under _fiire!_ Thake off whatever thtupor you’re iin and giive thome fuckiing orderth, _Captaiin!_ ”

The ship lurches again, but you catch yourself on the edge of the main control panel this time. Your opponent has been unable to close in for boarding, and, aside from a few earlier clips, no damage has been sustained. Really, though, it’s a miracle your stupid indecisive time-wasting hasn’t gotten you all killed yet, or it would be if you believed in such things.

“Fuck you, Sollux, my horn nearly snapped off,” you snarl belatedly. The force of your rage prompts additional coughing. Blinking has already dispelled the worst of your eye gunk, but you wipe a sleeve across your face for good measure. The instruments before you no longer blur beyond readability.

He snickers, saying, “Good thiing they’re tho thort, then, but theriiouthly--”

A throbbing pulse engulfs the ship three times, and through the viewport you witness your erratic and useless, off-mark return fire.

“Thiit,” Sollux mutters, static-edged, at the same time as you shout, “Who the hell-- Nepeta!”

“II told you the wath lothiing iit,” Sollux defends as you curse. “Don’t worry, II’ve jutht overriiden manual controlth for the gunner chaiirth. II’m reroutiing the energy towardth thiieldth, not that iit wiill really help.”

Through several layers of carbon-structure, you hear a snarling wail begin and start climbing in pitch. You chance lifting a hand to massage beneath your horns.

“She’s going to break something,” you bite out. “Herself, the ship, _both_. Why didn’t you shut her up somewhere at the start of this?”

The words are barely out before you realize how scummy what you just said is. You are an even worse person than previously thought just by allowing such a statement to slip past your disgustingly desecrated lips. Experts everywhere are probably paging each other with news of how Karkat fucking Vantas has managed once again to redefine the concept of being a total nooksucking douchewaffle. You contemplate banging your head against the controls, but decide you and the _Arisen_ have both already suffered enough damage for the moment.

“Forget I said that,” you-- it’s almost like you’re asking Sollux, even though he’s back to compiling information for you in strings of red and blue, probably distracted from what you’re saying, and anyway you’ve done nothing to him you need to apologize for other than waste time. Nepeta didn’t hear you. She never has to know. 

There’s really nothing like a space battle to make a person feel trapped, suddenly aware of how little there is between them and empty, unforgiving void. When facing weapons meant to confront them, a spaceship’s walls start feeling fragile. It becomes easy to notice how close everything is pressed, how little room there is aboard, how there’s no way out. There’s no way out and you could _die,_ everyone could die without ever seeing the face of the enemy or getting a chance to fight.

Back planetside, Nepeta didn’t have a hive. She lived in a cave with no door or anything. Throughout her entire wigglerhood, she was never that far removed from what one could call outside. Even now she turns down the offered ‘coon in favor of curling up in some ratty old hide and is the first one offboard when you make port. She misses the wind. She misses the sky. Living in a floating can drives her crazy even when nobody’s actively trying to puncture it. As far as you’re concerned it’s entirely fair of her to flip off the handle and go shithive maggots in situations like this, but it doesn’t mean you know what to do about it. There’s no way locking her up can help, though.

The hiss of the bridge door startles you enough that your sickles are already drawn by the time you spin around. Your throbbing horn makes you dizzy enough to lean back on the control panel, and it certainly isn’t relief factoring in that this isn’t your enraged, panicking arms-for-hire in the doorway. It’s that shy girl you took aboard at the last port, with her olive sign and blue-tinted glasses. She takes a moment to pant in the doorway, eyes widening as she takes in the scene through the viewport before her attention returns to you. There are cracks across her lenses.

After pursing her lips for a moment, she explains, in her odd, stilted manner, “I Was Uncertain What To Do In This State Of Alarm, And, Discovering The Nearest Crewmember Unable To Respond To Queries, I Decided To Make My Way To The Bridge Where It Seems I Have Discovered The Cause Of The Current Distressing Repeating Sound. May I Be Of Assistance?”

The speaker crackles before you can respond, Sollux’s voice calling, “Brace yourthelveth!”

The floor yanks diagonally beneath your feet, sending both you and your passenger sprawling. A second stage of maneuver slides you neatly under the controls. Wires pulse above your head as the olive tries to sit up amidst a soft tinkling of glass.

Abandoning your sickles, you scramble to her side, yank her to her feet, and lead her hastily to your captain’s chair. It’s comfortable but uselessly placed, too far from any equipment to be practical, meant for an overseer with a bunch of lackeys to do the real work. You push her into it.

“C’mon, KK, are we gonna run or what,” Sollux asks.

“Mother Grub’s seeping slurry-filled maw, can you hang on a _second,_ ” you snap at him. Turning back to meet your passenger’s eyes, you open your mouth to snarl at her and feel your thinkpan falter. The green staring back at you from empty frames carries none of the warmth of the color on her shirt. The shade’s all wrong, and her breath catches at nearly the same moment as your own.

Red lights the block four times before you realize your hands are still on her shoulders, holding her in place. She is stiff under you, the beat of your bloodpusher is pounding in your auricular sponges, and, oh hell, you’re looming over her, aren’t you. It doesn’t matter what color her eyes are now, not when they’re wide with fear, not when you have far more pressing concerns to deal with. It can matter later.

“You, too,” you manage around a suddenly tight throat as you relax your grip. “Hang on. Literally. I’ll let you know if I think of something else you can do, but right now we’re starting with not faceplanting.” You turn away from her, striding back to the front of the block. No new data has appeared on the red screen, although the blue is still piling up. More of the battleconveyor’s weapons seem to be charging. If you keep loitering, the necessary amount of dodging is sure to take a dramatic increase. Still…

“We always run,” you state. “Every single bulgesplitting time. I’m getting tired of it.”

The speaker cuts in, “Tho?”

“So, quick question,” you say. “How are you getting the enemy’s data?”

“By connectiing to the thiip’th network, pretty much,” comes the answer. “Every thiip’th got one. Although II thould poiint out II’m not offiiciially on iit or anythiing, iit thould be very diifiicult to trace what II’m doiing back to uth.”

You enquire, “Is the helmstroll on that network?”

“You could thay the helmthtroll iith the network,” Sollux responds. “IIt’th clothe enough to the truth, wiith how iinterdependent they are.”

You ask, “Can you mess with them?”

There’s a pause, and then, “How tho?”

You take a deep breath and ramble out, “Jam their weapons. Stop things from powering up. Get commands all turned around, lock random doors, whatever. I don’t know. This is just for practice, really, because I’d love to see if we can do anything to them, even if it’s really fucking petty. Can you turn off the lights? Could you take down the shields? Fuck, I didn’t even clarify if you could actually do anything, I just started rambling suggestions, very helpful, Karkat, you’re doing such a great job at this captain thing.”

Sollux snickers again, insufferable prick that he is, and says, “Nobody expected competence from you, you know. No need to let your pothiitiion go to your head. Ath for thiith hackiing, II’ll thee what II can do. No promiitheth.”

You let out a sigh. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “AA’th about to throw you agaiintht the wall.”

Your mouth is still opening to say ‘what’ when your side meets carbon-structure. The not-olive gasps but keeps ahold of your chair.

“I Don’t Think Ships Are Supposed To Do This,” she croaks.

“Too bad,” you bark, scurrying back to your position. “We make do with what we have. Now shut up, I’m trying to focus.”

The ship’s action log pulls up on screen, rapidly filling up with the technobabble of Sollux’s attempts. It’s scrolling too fast for you to properly read, but you think you catch something about a success.

“Huh,” says the not-olive, “Something--”

Before you can berate her lack of silence, Sollux’s smug voice interrupts with, “Thut down the engiines. Wow, do they need to thtep up on thecuriity. We can run any tiime now, but II thiink II’m gonna poke around at thiith a biit more. IIt could be utheful later.”

“That’s why I suggested it,” you say, feeling a bit puffed up yourself. “Good job, man. With my leadership and your hacking skills, we’ll take the whole galaxy by storm! I-- We can really do this, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, don’t get ahead of yourthelf,” he says, sounding pleased. “Okay, tho theiir blathtdethtroyer thould overheat iin a few miinuteth. II don’t thiink II can thtop iit fathter than that.”

“That sucks,” you say.

“IIt kiind of doeth,” he agrees, “But II thiink you’re riight. We can do thiith, KK, at leatht wiith toniight. We can wiin thiith.”

“We can win this,” you repeat, and fuck if you aren’t grinning. It’s an unstable, half-maniacal thing, and you spin around to show your passenger.

“It’s alright,” you inform her troubled visage. “We’re going to be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is actually a scene from a longer au of mine, but the full story is still being written-- I started years back. This isn't the chronological beginning of the story, but is a segment from the beginning-middle. As you can see, the small and still-growing crew is still pretty new to what they're doing. I hope you check back in later for more!
> 
> (Feel free to ask questions in the comments or at my tumblr with the same username as here, but I may choose not to answer if the answer would be spoilers.)


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